


city magic

by onetrueobligation



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Canon Incest, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-04 20:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12175884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrueobligation/pseuds/onetrueobligation
Summary: "Yes, and I hear the new girls are very happy in Moscow.'"Oh. Countess Natalya's daughter?""Yes, and her niece. They are staying with Natasha's godmother.""Indeed? Well, perhaps they can learn a thing or two here. Country magic is ever so dull."How would the events of Great Comet be changed if the aristocrats practised witchcraft? Natasha and Sonya go to stay with Marya Dmitrievna in the winter of 1812 to learn advanced magic, but with Natasha's fiance away, who knows what could happen to a young witch in the city?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me, beginning a Comet story when I'm already in the middle of writing another one? It's more likely than you think! (don't worry, fans of I'd Give The World To See You Smile - that one is still being worked on too)

_‘Yes, and I hear the new girls are very happy in Moscow.’_

_‘Oh. Countess Natalya’s daughter?’_

_‘Yes, and her niece. They are staying with Natasha’s godmother.’_

_‘Indeed? Well, perhaps they can learn a thing or two here. Country magic is ever so dull.’_

 

The Rostov family had never been particularly talented in the art of witchcraft. It was something all aristocrats studied, and _only_ aristocrats, and each wealthy family had their own branch of magic that was exclusive to them and kept as a family secret. However, as mentioned, the Rostovs had never been particularly talented in the art of witchcraft. Oh, they knew the basic charms – simple hexes, love spells, good luck charms and such. They specialised in working with precious stones.

But Russia was progressing too quickly for the aristocrats to keep up, and the Rostovs quickly realised they needed to teach their children elaborate magic as soon as possible, or else it could die out in the family altogether.

‘Ilya, I still don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Countess Natalya said solemnly. ‘I’ve never liked Marya Dmitrievna. She’s fearsome enough to have half of Moscow in her pocket, not to mention her magic is completely unorthodox.’

‘She’s a fine role model for the children, dear,’ Count Rostov said wearily. ‘And it’s only for a few months. What harm could the girls get up to in such a short time?’

 

Vera, Nikolai and Petya were all too preoccupied with their studies to travel to Moscow, and the countess was sick, so only Ilya, Natasha and her cousin Sonya were travelling. On the day they were scheduled to travel, Natasha could hardly stand still. Her heart was fluttering. ‘Moscow!’ she kept repeating to anyone and everyone. ‘Can you believe it?’

Sonya was not quite as hyperactive, but she was looking forward to it just as much.

Just before the departure, Natalya called over the girls. ‘Natasha, Sonya… I have a gift for each of you.’

From a little diamond-encrusted jewellery box, she withdrew two separate amulets – one blue and one green. Both were engraved with a rune of protection.

‘These have been in the family for generations,’ the countess said weakly, pausing a moment to cough into her handkerchief. ‘They are tradition whenever a family member goes away. Keep it with you always – the closer it is to your body, the stronger power it holds. Don’t let anyone else see it. Quickly, now, put them on and hide them under your collars! Good. Now, goodbye, my dears. Spare a thought for me once in a while, won’t you?’

‘We’re only leaving for a few months, Mama,’ Natasha laughed.

‘And we’ll be sure to write,’ Sonya added.

The countess smiled. ‘You are dears. Well, off you go. Take care, dears – and remember, don’t let the amulets show!’

 

The journey to Moscow was long and tiring, but Natasha could not sleep. When they entered the city, she thought she might burst from excitement. The last time she’d seen Moscow, she’d been just a child. Now, she was ready to make a name for herself as a charming young woman.

Her mind wandered to thoughts of Andrey. She missed him dearly and was looking forward to meeting his family while she was in Moscow. However, she never doubted that her love for him would always remain strong. He was her life, everything she desired – they were so much more when they were together, so much more powerful than they could be alone. Their souls were bound together by a magic stronger than they could hope to create themselves.

It was evening when they arrived at Marya Dmitrievna’s. Before they had a chance to knock, the doors were flung open and Natasha was squeezed into a tight hug. ‘My goddaughter!’ Marya boomed. Natasha thought one of her ribs might break until Marya released her. ‘And Sonyushka,’ the dame added as though an afterthought. ‘ _Bonjour._ ’ Sonya’s smile faltered a little – Marya only spoke French to those she thought little of. ‘And Ilya, you foolish old man, what have you been up to?’

She ushered them in, snapping at the servants all the while, her red gown billowing around her and making her seem even more intimidating. She sat them down in the drawing room, poured them some tea, and began to chatter incessantly about this and that for what felt like hours. The Rostovs could barely get a word in. Ilya was lucky enough to butt in at some point while Marya took a breath and announce that he was going to bed. Natasha glared at him – _you can’t leave us alone with her!_ – but he just gave her an apologetic smile before he was shown to his room by a servant.

‘Now that we’re all alone, we can discuss the important things,’ Marya said, grabbing Natasha’s hand. ‘Let me see the ring!’ Her eyes sparkled as they examined every detail of the jewel. ‘Hm. Of course, it couldn’t compare to the sort of stones  _your_ family have access to, but perhaps you can teach Prince Andrey a thing or two.’

Natasha didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered, so she merely smiled. ‘I miss him very dearly.’

‘Of course,’ Marya said dismissively, waving her hand in the air. ‘He is a very fine man. I’m sure all of Moscow is envious. And what of you, Sonya? Have you found a match yet?’

Sonya and Natasha shifted uncomfortably, both thinking of Nikolai. ‘Not as such,’ Sonya said finally in a quiet voice.

‘Ah, well, not to worry,’ Marya said hollowly. ‘There are many fine matches out there. You simply have to hold your head a little higher.’

Sonya and Natasha exchanged a glance. ‘I think I shall retire,’ Sonya said awkwardly, immediately standing from her seat.

Marya pretended to be oblivious as she poured Natasha another cup of tea. ‘Well, my dear, you are free to look through the library. I’m sure you’ll find something that will interest you.’

‘Actually, Sonya is the more bookish of us two-’

The attempt to speak good of Sonya was ignored. ‘You must begin reading up on the spells. You do want to learn to be a practiced witch, do you not?’

‘Of course,’ Natasha said, nodding enthusiastically.

‘Then you must begin as soon as possible.’ Marya hesitated. ‘Well, as soon as you make your debut in society. We must find you a new dress.’

‘I rather like my current one-’

‘Nonsense!’ Marya barked. ‘Now, I know it’s late, but I have something I would like to show you. Put on your coat.’

Five minutes later the two women were walking through the woods, Marya having cast a protective charm over them beforehand. ‘Where are we going, godmother?’

‘The riverside,’ Marya responded. ‘Make sure to stay on the path, dear. We don’t want you getting your, er… _interesting_ dress ruined.’

Natasha was wondering whether the whole purpose of the excursion was to have her dress ruined when she tripped and screamed. She didn’t fall, but she was still in shock. Marya ran to her side quickly. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, I merely stumbled,’ Natasha said embarrassedly, dusting herself down. ‘It’s awfully dark.’

Marya Dmitrievna snapped her fingers and as if on cue, a small, flickering flame appeared in the palm of her hand, illuminating the surroundings. Natasha stared in awe. Fire magic was advanced witchcraft, and she couldn’t help being impressed. ‘Could you teach me how to do that?’

Marya laughed her booming laugh. ‘All in good time, darling.’

Soon, they were greeted by the sound of rushing water and Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. Marya opened the small jar of rosemary she had brought along and gave it to her goddaughter. ‘Now, follow my instructions closely. This is a long distance love spell, to keep you and your fiancé joined in spirit when not in person. Stand by the edge.’

Natasha did so.

‘Now call out to your love. Be sure to use his name.’

Natasha felt a little foolish, but she did so anyway, as loudly as she could. She giggled. ‘I love you!’ she shouted. ‘I love you, Andrey!’

‘Good. Now throw the rosemary into the current and visualise your message reaching him.’

Natasha did so and watched the rosemary float downstream by the light of Marya Dmitrievna’s flame. She pictured Andrey coming home, wrapping her into a tight hug, and whispering _I love you_ in her ear for an eternity. She pictured their souls already combined, and it was only a matter of time until they were married.

‘Now, home,’ Marya commanded, taking her goddaughter by the arm. ‘You need to rest well. You can’t meet everyone with bags under your eyes, can you?’ And she continued to ramble in such a manner until they were home.

Just before she retired for the night, Marya Dmitrievna lit a few blue candles in Natasha’s room and sprinkled a little jasmine under her pillow. She placed a cup of steaming mugwort tea on the bedside table. ‘For prophetic dreams,’ she explained. ‘Goodnight.’

Natasha expected to be unable to sleep for excitement about the upcoming magic lessons she and Sonya would be taking, but she found herself exhausted after pouring her energy into the spell, and she was asleep within five minutes, dreaming of her lips meeting her betrothed’s. But before they quite reached one another, the dream went dark and they were torn apart by a blurry shadow.

Natasha awoke with her heart racing. She dusted off the jasmine and blew out the candles. Perhaps Marya Dmitrievna’s magic was a little too powerful.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, all the superstitions are taken from actual Russian/Eastern European beliefs and customs (do you think I would just make something like this up?)

_‘You won’t forget me, Andrey?’_

_‘Of course not, my love. There is more than magic keeping us together.’_

 

City magic varied greatly from country magic. Country magic focused on becoming one with nature and mostly involved natural charms, such as herb and flower spells. City magic was far more modern and, in Natasha’s opinion, exciting. While country magic was usually only used for good luck, love, and household chores, city magic was used for almost everything. As they walked the streets, Natasha and Sonya could practically feel Moscow teeming with magic.

Marya Dmitrievna’s family magic was fire, which would come as no surprise to anyone who knew the woman. While she was a talented witch in all areas, her ability to conjure fire from thin air was something that amazed nearly everyone. In the particularly harsh weeks of winter, fire magic was a very useful skill.

The Bolkonskys specialised in lunar magic, which Natasha looked forward to learning from her fiancé. They worked with the moon, and the daughter, Princess Mary, could often be seen praying under a full moon. Mary worked hard to keep a balance between her magical and Christian lives, Natasha was told by her godmother. Andrey had cast a lunar love spell over Natasha just before he had left, and Natasha had since had a deep appreciation for the stars and the moon.

‘What other families are there?’ Sonya asked as they were shown through the streets.

‘Let me see…’ Marya said, tapping her temple. ‘You have the Bezukhovs – poor Pierre, his wife could be seeing five different men and he’d still be oblivious. Their family specialises in working with energies.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘They can read your emotions like reading a book when they see you,’ Marya explained. ‘No matter how hard you try to conceal it, they can always tell what you’re feeling. Personally, I find it rather intrusive.’ She sniffed. ‘Pierre was lucky to have learned any of this at all, being an illegitimate son. My one regret is his wife learning his skills. Pierre can be trusted with that power – Helene cannot.’

When two people were married, their family magic was transferred to one another without having to be taught. The talent became a part of them as much as their own magic was. When Natasha married Andrey, their spirits would truly be intertwined and they would adapt each other’s magic.

‘Who else? Hm… you have the Drubetskoys, of course,’ Marya said, frowning. ‘They specialise in ice and snow magic. I always say that if they left Moscow, perhaps the winters wouldn’t be so bitter.’ She laughed. ‘You have the Dolokhovs… Well. _Dolokhov._ Fyodor’s the last member of his family still in the city. He specialises in weaponry and war. Of course, the Tsar finds this _very_ useful indeed-’

She cut off suddenly, which was a very odd thing for her to do. Natasha followed her gaze to a man and a woman walking together, arm in arm, laughing and talking. Both were stunningly beautiful. The man had a perfectly chiselled jaw and blond hair that seemed to defy gravity. The woman had her curly brown hair tied up, revealing her angular face and sharp features. ‘Who are they, godmother?’

‘The Kuragins,’ Marya Dmitrievna said in a low voice. ‘Well, more specifically, Kuragin and his sister, Countess Bezukhova.’

‘They’re _siblings?_ ’ Natasha couldn’t help from exclaiming. From the way they were talking, being anything other than husband and wife seemed scandalous. And yet, she felt an odd attraction to both of them, as though they were all that was good in the world. She suddenly wanted to be near them, to speak to them, to touch them.

‘Masters of love magic,’ Marya continued darkly. ‘Seduction, romance… they’ve conquered it all. I’d stay far away from them if I were you. Quickly girls, let’s continue.’

Natasha and Sonya found themselves ushered away, but Natasha couldn’t help her eyes following the Kuragins as they walked. The woman turned mid-laugh and looked directly into Natasha’s eyes. Natasha felt her cheeks grow hot and turned away quickly.

‘How handsome they both are,’ she remarked quietly to Sonya when Marya wasn’t listening.

Sonya gave her a reproachful look. ‘Natasha, you heard what Marya said – they’re love witches. We should stay away from them.’

‘Of _course,_ dear cousin,’ Natasha laughed. ‘I’m nineteen. I’m not a child anymore.’

The three of them made their way to Madame Chambord’s dress shop, where Marya Dmitrievna insisted on deciding every detail. By the end of the shopping trip, both girls had three new dresses each (although Sonya’s were decidedly more plain). Just as they were leaving, Madame Chambord gripped Natasha’s shoulder, making the countess jump.

‘A full moon tomorrow night, dear,’ she said, eyes wide, making her look more than a little eccentric. Natasha recoiled, the woman’s thin fingers digging into her skin. ‘You ought to be careful. Pretty girls can find trouble in Moscow.’

She glanced over at the window just as a black raven crashed against the glass and flew off, screeching. Natasha followed her gaze, wide-eyed and more than a little frightened. Marya grabbed her arm quickly and dragged her from the store.

‘What _was_ that?’ Sonya asked, hurrying to keep up with Marya’s fast stride. ‘What did she mean, Marya Dmitrievna?’

Marya’s lips were in a tight scowl. ‘It is considered a bad omen in Moscow for a bird to fly into a window. An omen of exceedingly bad luck and death. But that woman had no right… scaring a poor girl like that…’

‘Oh, it’s quite alright, godmother,’ Natasha said, recovering almost immediately. ‘In truth, I find all the superstitions quite fascinating.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ Marya said gravely. ‘Death omens are nothing to be taken lightly.’

 

That night, the three of them and Natasha’s father gathered around the table. Natasha was just sitting down at the corner of the table when Marya Dmitrievna shouted, ‘Stop!’

Natasha leapt up immediately. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘It is a curse for an unmarried person to sit at the corner of a table,’ Marya announced dramatically. ‘If you do, you may never be married.’

Natasha shivered and immediately swapped places with her father.

The dinner was hot borscht, which they all ate quickly. They were tired and Natasha didn’t want to encounter any more bad omens even before the end of her second day. She was dipping her spoon into the soup when she found a bay leaf in her spoon.

‘Ah!’ Marya Dmitrievna said, and Natasha sighed.

‘Please don’t say it’s another bad omen.’

‘On the contrary!’ Marya said, beaming. ‘A bay leaf means you’ll be receiving mail soon.’

Natasha and Sonya exchanged a glance. ‘Andrey?’ Natasha whispered. Sonya nodded.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t want me to accompany you to the Bolkonskys’ tomorrow?’ Ilya asked his daughter, in a tone of voice that clearly said _please don’t leave me with this woman._

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ Natasha said. ‘What harm can an old man and a young woman do?’

 

Natasha fled from the Bolkonskys’ with tears in her eyes. She was completely humiliated. _Is this the family I must marry into?_ Mary had been so cold, and the prince had been downright rude. Just as she had been leaving, Mary had grabbed her hand and whispered with wide eyes, ‘Do be careful, countess. It’s a full moon tonight.’

Natasha hadn’t stayed to find out why she should be careful.

As she walked home all alone, she glanced up at the moon. It was beautiful as always, but now she felt a sense of apprehension toward it. The snow glittering in the moonlight seemed ominous rather than inviting.

At least she’d soon be learning lunar magic for herself. _Oh, when will Andrey arrive? Oh, god, why isn’t he here?_

He’d left her with a love spell over her, the moon and stars joining her to him. She knew that somewhere, Andrey was looking up at the very same sky, the very same moon, and perhaps thinking of her at that very moment. But if the stars and moon were looking over her, why did she feel so alone?

Her hand flew up to her amulet, and she ran her fingers across its smooth surface. No one had seen it, and she’d kept it close, so surely its protective powers were working? And yet if so, why had the Kuragins lured her in the day before?

She realised just how little magic she knew and began to cry as she raced home as fast as she could.

 

That evening, after she had been comforted and given a glass of hot cocoa, a servant brought her a letter.

_My dearest Natasha,_

_As much as I try to focus on my everyday tasks, my thoughts always find themselves returning to you. I have memorised every detail of your face and cannot wait until I can see it in person again. I shall be returning home any day now._

_Give your family my best wishes!_

_All my love,  
Andrei Bolkonsky_

As Natasha went to sleep that night, she clutched the letter tightly to her chest. If even the whole world turned against her, at least Andrey would always be a constant in her life.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_‘You fascinate me, Fedya.’_

_‘How so?’_

_‘You are the only person I know who is completely immune to my powers.’_

 

The opera was where Natasha and Sonya would make their official debuts in Moscow society. The count had pleaded a headache, and so it was only the women attending. Sonya seemed anxious, but Natasha was excited. Her heart raced in her chest as she was dolled up with makeup, jewellery, and of course an extravagant dress. Each gem she wore had a different property, and she could feel power running through her veins.

The girls held up their skirts and jumped from the carriage, Marya Dmitrievna guiding them into the theatre. They hadn’t seen an opera since they were very young and had no idea what to expect. It quickly became apparent that the guests were attending less for the performance and more for the gossip. As Natasha made her way through the room with her cousin, she held her head high and noticed the eyes and the whispers that followed her. She had invented her own kind of magic, and she seemed to have entranced everyone in the room.

She and Sonya caught snippets of conversation as they walked, petty pieces of gossip. Natasha felt her heart swell. She’d never felt anything like it before. People were staring at her bare arms and neck, observing her, coming to conclusions. Natasha knew the women were envious. She smoothed her gown self-consciously.

‘Announcing Fedya Dolokhov!’ a page proclaimed, and a man with dark hair and heavily lidded eyes made his way into the room. He was handsome and clearly aware of it, talking with the ladies and the gentlemen alike with a sly smile that didn’t match his piercing eyes.

‘Dolokhov killed the Shah’s brother,’ Marya whispered in her ear. ‘Now all the Moscow ladies are completely taken with him.’

Natasha giggled, but stopped and went pink when she saw Countess Bezukhova approaching in a revealing dress, a double string of pearls around her long, elegant neck. Her brown curls were tied up with a green headdress, letting a few strands hang in front of her face in what was now the fashion. She approached Dolokhov and linked her arm with his. Natasha watched them, utterly hypnotised, when Helene caught her eye and approached the three of them.

‘So beautiful,’ she breathed when she was close enough, examining the blushing Natasha from head to toe. ‘What a charming young girl – so enchanting.’

Natasha felt her face turning an even deeper shade of red and at the same time remembered the Bezukhovs possessed the ability to read another’s energies and emotions. She let out another giggle, the only thinkable response, but Marya saved her the embarrassment of having to find some way to return the compliment.

‘Countess Bezukhova!’ Marya said, with such falseness that Natasha wondered if anyone fell for it at all. ‘Have you been in the city long? And where is your husband? He never used to forget us.’

‘Oh, yes, Pierre!’ Natasha said excitably, suddenly finding her voice. ‘He must come visit us.’

Helene smiled in a way that said she knew far more than she was letting on. ‘I will implore him to do so.’

And then she was gone, leaving Natasha staring after her, still awe-struck. Marya placed her hand on her shoulder and she looked up, eyes glittering. ‘Remember what I said – the Kuragins are a family one should stay far away from.’

Then a bell rang and they were taking their seats in the boxes. Natasha was just sitting down when she heard a voice call her name. She turned to see Helene smiling at her cryptically.

‘Dear Natasha, won’t you come sit with us?’

Natasha glanced at her godmother. Marya understood it would be impolite to refuse. ‘Go ahead, Natasha.’

And so the young countess made her way to sit in the older woman’s box. Both Helene and Dolokhov complimented Natasha’s dress, her jewellery, the flower in her hair. Helene called her _charmante_ and Natasha thought she might burst from happiness. ‘That is a great compliment indeed coming from someone as stunning as you, Countess.’

Helene smiled and patted her on the cheek. ‘You are a dear.’

Across the room, Sonya shot her a questioning look. _What are you doing?_ she mouthed.

Natasha dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

‘Oh, the show is starting,’ Helene said, and she took Natasha’s hand in hers as though they had been great friends for many years as the lights went dark and the voices began to sing.

The opera incorporated magic into its theatrics, but to Natasha, it all seem false and unnatural. She wished to bury her face in her hands, or perhaps laugh loudly at the strange actors dancing in strange manners. And yet, just as with Helene, she was also captivated by the sheer extravagance of it all. Very soon, she began to lose track of the story. The colours flashed before her eyes, the music and singers flooded her senses, and all she was aware of was Helene’s hand clutching hers. Her eyelids flickered for just a moment as though she might fall asleep, and then the next moment she was jolted to her senses.

The lights, the colour, the music, the singing, and _Helene_ floated through her mind, spinning faster and faster like a whirlpool of strange shapes and figures. Natasha felt her body seem to rise out of its seat as she entered a dream-like state of intoxication. The box was hot, her hands were sweating, and Helene’s eyes were upon her. And then…

A rush of cold air hit the back of her neck, making her hairs stand on end. She seemed to drift back to reality somewhat as she turned, but she was struck dumb by what she saw.

It was Prince Kuragin, Helene’s brother, but he did not look anything like how he had looked the last time she’d seen him. Earlier, he had more or less blended with the crowd, dressed modestly, even. He had certainly been outshined by his sister. But now… now he seemed to be his own source of light in the room.

His blond hair was perfectly styled and seemed to defy gravity as it stood, framing his perfect face. His plump lips were pouted in something that was not quite a smile, and he tilted his head as if to show off his exquisitely chiselled jaw and his flawless cheekbones. His white uniform seemed to make his stance even more confident, and his stance seemed to make him even taller. He stood for just a moment, as though waiting for everyone in the box to take in his appearance. And then he turned and looked directly at Natasha, who froze like a hunted rabbit.

‘ _Mais charmante,_ ’ he said in a low voice, before taking his place in the row before her next to Dolokhov.

Natasha could not comprehend what was happening around her. The man was bold enough to enter the box in the middle of the act, and to speak so freely to a woman he had just met. She felt herself digging her nails into the palm of her hand, and Helene noticed.

‘Worry not, dear Countess,’ she whispered softly against her ear. ‘He is that way with everyone.’

The music grew louder. She saw Anatole touch Dolokhov’s cheek, whisper something in his ear, but she could not hear what they said. But when Anatole turned and caught her eye, she knew.

_He is talking about me._

Suddenly the music took a sharp turn. It became fearsome, deep and dangerous. Drums struck a dramatic beat, and the singers wailed in mournful tones. Suddenly there was fire on the stage, casting the audience in an eerie orange glow. Then the music reached a climax, dropped quickly, and the audience was cheering and applauding with rapturous faces.

And then the lights returned, as though a wake-up call for Natasha, and she blinked tiredly. Just above the noise of the audience beginning to chatter, she caught a couple of words of Anatole’s conversation with Dolokhov.

‘-I shall speak with her.’

‘Anatole, please-’

But Anatole was rising from his seat. ‘I believe he wants a word with you,’ Helene said, nudging Natasha, an inexplicable note of bitterness in her tone.

Marya caught her eye from their own box and shook her head imperceptibly, but Anatole had taken her by the arm. It wasn’t forceful, but it was inviting, and Natasha could only oblige his questioning look. She was amazed by his forwardness, but it also thrilled her. _Surely this is not magic. I feel this is truly the real man I see before me._

He took her to the corner of the box and began speaking with her in hushed undertones. ‘I have long wished to have this happiness ever since the Naryshkins’ ball, where I had the well-remembered pleasure of seeing you.’

Natasha remembered the ball, perhaps half a year ago. _He knows me?_ A million thoughts ran through her mind at once. She could not help admiring Anatole’s features, from his glittering eyes to his tender smile. His porcelain face was so perfect she had to remind herself it would be far too forward to reach out and touch him.

Then, with a crushing blow, she remembered she loved another man.

She said nothing, fearing that if she did, she would trip over her words and make a fool of herself. Instead, Anatole continued, ‘Do you know, my sister and I are having a costume tournament soon. You ought to come.’

‘Oh, I…’

‘Please come,’ Anatole said quickly, his eyes darting across her face. His mouth was in a straight line but his eyes were smiling as they traced across her neck to her bare arms.

It occurred to Natasha that Anatole was taken with her, enraptured by her. Some small part of her reminded her that she ought to turn him away, remind him she was engaged, but that was overwhelmed with euphoria at his words, his actions. And yet she was also immensely frightened. She was used to men following social customs, and this man was so bold. There was no veil, nothing separating the two of them, giving the illusion she had known him all her life.

She scrambled desperately for some topic of conversation. ‘How do you like Moscow?’

Anatole chuckled at that. ‘I must say, at first I did not like it much, because what makes a town pleasant is the pretty women.’ He grinned and leaned in a little too close for Natasha’s liking. ‘But now I like it, very much indeed.’ And then he returned to his previous posture. ‘Do come to the costume tournament. You will be the prettiest there.’ His hand traced her cheek and found its way to the flower she wore in her hair. ‘Do come… and give me this flower as a pledge.’

He snatched it from her hair without warning, and she let out a small hiss of pain. But then she caught his eye again, and his eyes, his _eyes,_ were the only things in the room.

There was nothing between them.

And then the lights were dimming, and Anatole gave her one final glance before returning to his seat beside an unimpressed Dolokhov. Natasha recovered herself and sat back down next to Helene, who was smirking. ‘You must forgive my brother. He has no sense of etiquette whatsoever.’

‘Oh, there is nothing to forgive,’ Natasha said dreamily, staring at the back of Anatole’s head.

Once again, she remembered suddenly her fiancé, and guilt plagued her thoughts. The world vanished as she was lost in her own thoughts. Her past life was slipping away from her all too quickly. And at the end of the performance, just as she was returning to Marya and Sonya, Anatole stopped her and pressed her arm gently. And then he was gone, just like in a dream. She hardly spoke for the rest of the night as she pondered her new, sudden feelings.

 _Am I spoiled for Andrey’s love or not?_ she wondered desperately. _No, it was nothing. I’ll never see Kuragin again,_ she concluded. _No one will ever know, and Andrey can love me still. Oh, God, why isn’t he here?_

But as she went to sleep that night, clutching her pendant tightly, she couldn’t help but picture Anatole’s handsome face, his glittering eyes, his tender smile.

It would remain forever their secret.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was it helene or anatole speaking at the beginning? that's up to you to decide


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually two short chapters combined into one. The opening of the first is more or less taken word-for-word from War and Peace. Also, there may not be THAT much magic yet, but I promise it will work its way into the story later.

_‘Do you believe those who say your wife is having an affair with Dolokhov?’_

_‘He is very handsome, and I know him. It would be particularly pleasant to him to dishonour my name and ridicule me, just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him and helped him. I know what a spice that would add to the pleasure of deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, but I cannot believe it. I have no right to. He is a bully. It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that must please him. He must think I, too, am afraid of him – and in fact I am afraid of him.’_

 

Pierre drank too much. Alcohol was known for having the effect of reducing one’s magic, and Pierre was practically useless when it came to magic. His family was said to specialise in reading the emotions of others, and indeed his wife had mastered it, but he had never cared for magic and his alcoholism prevented him from exploring his powers further than the most basic magic.

He often shut himself away in his study, particularly during one of his wife’s soirees. He knew she enjoyed playing hostess, the power and influence she had, but he despised allowing so many people into his home. People talked, people observed, people seemed to know everything about his own life.

Pierre knew one thing about the Kuragins that the rest of Moscow seemed unaware of – their magic was temporary. One could easily become hypnotised by their charm and beauty, but after spending perhaps a month or so with them, their magic was lost.

Pierre disgusted himself. He loathed every part of himself that he saw. And ever since Andrey had announced his engagement to Natasha, he had fallen into a deep depression and could not understand why. He missed his only friend, and with him gone, he was more alone than ever.

Without Pierre’s permission, Helene had invited Anatole to stay with them while he was in Moscow. His father had sent him to the city after a particularly excessive spending spree in the hopes of teaching him to be a little more careful. Penniless and disgraced, Anatole had turned to his sister.

Having Anatole around the house was certainly an ordeal for Pierre. At first, he’d been struck by Anatole’s charm, but the effect soon wore away and he was left only with an irritating brat who seemed determined to take every last ruble of Pierre’s.

Anatole and Helene had left for the opera. Pierre, of course, had not attended. He hadn’t realised they had returned until the door to his study opened without warning and Anatole strode into the room, his sword jangling at his side. Pierre didn’t look up.

‘Good evening, Pierre. Studying?’

‘Yes,’ Pierre replied gruffly. ‘How was the opera?’

‘Lovely. Natalya Rostova was there.’

Pierre raised his bushy eyebrows and turned. He recognised the tone in Anatole’s voice. ‘Ah, yes – Prince Bolkonsky’s betrothed.’

‘Betrothed?’ Anatole repeated quietly. ‘Elena never said- well, it isn’t important. My sister and I are going to the Club with Dolokhov.’ He grinned toothily and leaned in to Pierre. ‘You remember Dolokhov, don’t you?’

‘How could I forget?’ Pierre muttered, thinking back to the time they had thrown a policeman and a bear into the river when they were boys.

‘Won’t you join us?’ Anatole asked with a smirk, clearly thinking back to the same memories as Pierre.

Pierre was about to decline, but he realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been outside. And besides, there would be vodka and there would be wine.

‘Yes, I will come,’ he decided, standing up from his desk. He was stopped when Anatole put a hand on his shoulder, the other hand outstretched.

‘But first, lend me fifty rubles, if you would be so kind.’

Pierre rolled his eyes and fished on his desk for the money.

He didn’t remember travelling to the Club. He was just suddenly there, and the night all passed by in a blur. The more he drank, the more clouded his mind became, the less aware he was of the others laughing at him. Drinking gave the illusion that no one was staring.

He became vaguely aware of Anatole crooning about Natasha, but it felt far away, and Pierre felt so distant that his words did not affect him. He seemed to be floating several feet above the ground, a sensation he had grown used to over the years.

The night seemed to absorb him in a whirlwind of colour and noise. And then his eyes seemed to focus on his wife, and she… she had her arms wrapped around Dolokhov’s waist. And he realised Dolokhov was standing on a table, his glass in the air, toasting to something.

_Here’s to the health of married women and their lovers!_

And Helene cheered the loudest and raised her glass the highest and Pierre’s mind seemed to silence as he added up what he was seeing before him. Then Dolokhov was leaving kisses along Helene’s exposed neck and a rage built up inside Pierre. The previous bliss he had felt seeped away and was replaced with embarrassment and fury. He stormed over to where Dolokhov was laughing (or rather, staggered, but it felt to Pierre as though he was storming) and slapped the glass from his hand. Everyone nearby became silent as the glass shattered. Helene and Anatole were speechless, but Dolokhov was wearing just the hint of a smirk.

‘How dare you touch her!’ Pierre snarled, taking Dolokhov by the collar.

Dolokhov laughed. ‘You cannot possibly love her.’

‘You scoundrel!’ Pierre shouted, so loudly that all eyes were now upon him. ‘I challenge you.’

There was muttering, laughter, as the effect of his words took place. Pierre, the bumbling fool, against a weaponry witch? Pierre didn’t stand a chance.

Dolokhov seemed to think he was joking for a moment, until he saw Pierre’s steely glare. ‘Oh? A duel?’ He bared his teeth. ‘I could stop your heart in a moment if I wished, Petrushka.’ As if to demonstrate, he pressed his finger against Pierre’s chest, the most common form of hexing. Pierre felt his flesh burn as though he would burst into flames until Dolokhov pulled back. ‘But, if you would rather a duel…’

‘He will kill you, you fool!’ Helene snapped, marching to Pierre’s side.

‘What is it to you? No doubt you’d have me replaced within the hour,’ Pierre retorted.

‘Shall we arrange a time, a place?’ Dolokhov asked, deathly quiet.

Pierre knew if he waited until he was sober, he’d end up backing out. ‘No. Guns drawn, right here, right now.’

Dolokhov laughed again, and it only infuriated Pierre more. ‘Very well.’

 

Pierre’s memories of the night ended there, but he knew what had happened. How could he ever show his face in public again? He had shot a man, perhaps fatally wounded him.

_How?_ He supposed Dolokhov had been equally drunk and probably had lacked most of his powers. _Thank God,_ Pierre thought. If Dolokhov had been using his full magic, Pierre would have been a dead man. But Pierre was a Mason – how could he do something so terrible? Draw a pistol on a man with the intention of killing him?

He was sitting upright in his bed and was interrupted when the door opened and Helene slunk inside in her dressing robe.

‘Please do not speak to me,’ Pierre said weakly. Helene ignored him.

‘Well, you’ve certainly made a fool of yourself,’ she said haughtily. ‘Have you any idea what this has done to my reputation?’

‘Please,’ Pierre said again. ‘Elena…’

‘Shooting men in public. What came over you? Dolokhov is just an old family friend, there is nothing between us. But of course you had to make a spectacle of it.’

‘Don’t speak to me!’

‘Do not use that tone of voice with me,’ Helene snapped. ‘I am the injured party here. Your little stunt is the talk of Moscow.’

Pierre rose from the bed and lunged at her. ‘Get out!’

Helene shrieked and jumped away from him, fleeing from the room. Pierre watched her leave, chest heaving, before he crumpled on the bed and dissolved into sobs.

 

_‘Will you ask Natasha to the ball tonight?’_

_‘Of course, dear brother.’_

 

‘Natasha, wake up!’

Natasha’s eyes flickered open to see Sonya, who was smiling eagerly.

‘Hm? What is it, cousin?’ Natasha asked sleepily.

Sonya shook her and threw off the blankets. Natasha shrieked and Sonya laughed.

‘Last night I read a book about a spell for seeing the future. I want you to see. Come on, quickly!’

‘I’m coming,’ Natasha said with a chuckle.

Sonya took her hand and led her to the mirror, which was adjacent to another mirror on the opposite wall. The room was in darkness except for the dim sunlight coming from underneath the curtains and the lavender candles on the top of the vanity.

Sonya took one of the candles and placed it in Natasha’s hand. ‘Hold it up to the mirror, that’s the way.

‘Oh, no, Sonya, what if it’s another bad omen?’ Natasha moaned. ‘I’m sick to death of everything being some sort of curse.’

‘No, it won’t be,’ Sonya promised. ‘If you look into the very last square of the mirror, you will see either a coffin, or a man.’

‘But what if it’s a coffin?’

Sonya smirked. ‘Everyone sees a man.’

‘Are you sure this is real magic?’

Sonya clutched her chest, pretending to be shocked. ‘My _goodness,_ Tasha, how could you possibly doubt the authenticity of a magic book found in _Marya Dmitrievna’s own home?_ ’

Natasha laughed. ‘Very well.’

She squinted at the distorted final square of the mirror. ‘I see… I see a shape…’

‘Yes?’

‘Is it him? Or is it…?’ her voice trailed off as she thought of the tall, confident silhouette of Prince Kuragin. Then she gasped. ‘He’s lying down! Oh, Sonya why is he lying down?’

Sonya wrapped her arms around her friend. ‘There, there, Natasha, I was only being silly. I’m sure it means nothing.’

Natasha realised she was crying. She was terribly torn between her love for Andrey and the new, confusing feelings she was experiencing toward Anatole.

‘Today, we begin your lessons,’ Marya said as they were finishing breakfast. ‘But first, I must visit the Bolkonskys.’

‘Why?’ Sonya asked, while Natasha looked down at her meal and pretended not to hear the conversation.

‘The rudeness of that old man!’ She frowned. ‘Worry not, Natasha, I’ll soon have him straightened out.’

‘Oh, I can’t bear to think of it!’ Natasha cried. ‘I’ll stay home, and try on my new dresses.’

Marya had only just left when there was a knock at the door. It was answered by Ilya. ‘Ah, Countess Bezukhova! What a pleasant surprise.’

‘Good morning, Count,’ Helene said with a polite smile. ‘I’ve come to visit your goddaughter. I met her yesterday evening at the opera and she is simply delightful.’

‘She is certainly my pride and joy,’ Ilya said proudly. ‘Sonya can bring you to her. Sonya, come here!’

Sonya entered from the other room and stopped when she saw Helene, who was smiling at her unsettlingly. ‘Good morning, countess,’ she said curtly.

‘My niece,’ Ilya explained.

‘Yes, I have seen her in the city lately,’ Helene said, eyes flickering over Sonya’s plain appearance.

‘Would you show the countess to Natasha, dear?’ Ilya asked expectantly.

‘Natasha is currently in her room, trying on dresses,’ Sonya said coldly.

‘I’m sure she won’t mind me popping in for a moment.’

Sonya turned to the count, but he was merely smiling and nodding along to Helene’s words. She sighed. ‘Very well.’

She led Helene up the stairs but before she knocked at Natasha’s door, she turned and looked Helene in the eye. ‘Countess, I cannot begin to imagine why you and your brother are so taken with my cousin, but be aware that she knows about your powers. She is not gullible enough to fall for whatever scheme you have for her.’

Sonya expected Helene to argue, to protest her innocence, but her Cheshire cat smile merely grew wider. ‘No doubt you’re the overlooked one in your family?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Always outshined by your cousin, never the favourite, always just a little too simple, a little too plain.’ Helene touched her arm in mock sympathy.

‘How dare you?’ Sonya cried, pulling away. ‘Just because you can read my emotions does not give you power over me!’

Helene laughed as she went for Natasha’s bedroom door. ‘Oh, Sonya. I wouldn’t need to be a Bezukhov to read _you._ ’

 

Natasha was dressed in only her corset and stockings, sorting through the dresses in the wardrobe, when the door flew open. She whipped around, attempting to cover herself. ‘Countess Bezukhova!’

Helene smiled as Natasha grew flustered. ‘How many times must I tell you to call me Helene?’ She gave an exaggerated gasp as her eyes took in Natasha’s exposed body. ‘Oh, my enchantress. Truly, you are stunning. You beautiful thing.’

‘Oh…’ Natasha breathed, cheeks flushing. ‘Thank you, Countess.’

Helene sidled up to her, running her nimble fingers along Natasha’s exposed collarbone. ‘This is really beyond anything.’ She turned her head to examine the array of dresses. ‘Oh, I don’t think a single thing here could possibly flatter you appropriately.’

Helene seemed to be just as bold as her brother.

‘Oh, look,’ Helene said, tapping Natasha’s cheek playfully. ‘You’re blushing, my pretty. How charming.’

Natasha went only redder at her touch.

‘How could you possibly be enjoying yourself shut up in this old house?’ Helene cried, twirling around the room. ‘You ought to go out.’

‘Actually, my cousin and I are here to study magic.’

‘Magic?’ Helene repeated with her smirk. ‘From whom?’

‘My godmother, Marya Dmitrievna.’

Helene threw back her head and cackled, her curls bobbing with her head. ‘Oh, you poor dear. Marya Dmitrievna is certainly not a reliable source for learning magic. No, she is one of the most inexperienced witches I’ve met.’

‘Really?’ Natasha said, puzzled.

‘Well, let me ask you this – have you ever seen any of her spells work?’

Natasha thought back. Marya could conjure fire in her palm, but of course, that ran in her family. She had shown her how to send her love to Andrey…

But if she was so bonded to Andrey, then why all of a sudden did she feel so close to Anatole?

‘Just as I thought,’ Helene said wisely. ‘Would you like to see _real_ magic?’

‘Of course.’

Helene grinned. She began to move her hands along the outline of Natasha’s body, and Natasha could feel her skin tingling. And then, as though in a dream, the corset seemed to morph and stretch out into a long, white, elegant ballgown. Natasha clutched her hands to her face with a squeal. ‘My goodness, Countess, it’s beautiful. How did you do that?’

‘I studied _true_ magic, my dear. Perhaps I can teach you sometime?’

‘I’d be delighted.’ Natasha felt as though she were floating on a cloud.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Helene said. ‘There is a ball at my house this evening. You really must come. You will undoubtedly be the prettiest there.’

‘I… I really shouldn’t,’ Natasha said uncertainly. She wanted to stay away from Anatole. She had to stay true to Andrey.

Helene raised her eyebrows. She sensed Natasha’s uncertainty, but it was unnatural. She had to be wearing some sort of protective charm over her.

She smoothly ran her fingers over Natasha’s neck and found a chain. When her fingers touched the cool metal, she felt a shock run through her blood and knew that was the offending object keeping herself and Anatole from having the girl entirely. Before Natasha could say a word, she snapped the chain from Natasha’s neck and threw it over her shoulder.

‘But-’ Natasha began.

‘Oh, Natasha, pendants like those are ever so out of fashion.’ She reached around her own neck and removed one of her pearl necklaces, sliding it delicately over Natasha’s neck. ‘There. Now you no longer look like a child.’

The words resonated deeply with Natasha. The one thing she wanted was to be seen as a woman, not a girl. After Helene had taken away her amulet, she suddenly felt so much lighter and free, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Helene had, prior to visiting, enchanted the necklace she had given Natasha. She did not like to say it was a vulnerability charm – no, she preferred to say it was to make Natasha’s heart more open. Whatever it was, it was strong enough to overpower the girl’s feelings for her fiancé.

‘Will you come to the ball?’ Helene asked again.

Natasha pondered for a moment, before clasping Helene’s hand tightly. ‘I will come.’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy that was pretty gay


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn every time i try to write danatole it just turns into dolokhov pining

_‘My God! Fedya, can you stand?’_

_‘Get away from me, fool. I don’t need your help.’_

Dolokhov felt sick as he watched Anatole preparing for the ball.

Helene had brought him various healing concoctions and he was more or less fully recovered, aside from his wounded pride. How on earth had he, a trained marksman, managed to be wounded by a drunk buffoon? He had batted Anatole away when he had tried to help.

And to add insult to injury, Anatole hadn’t stopped talking about Natasha since the opera.

Helene had somehow managed to convince Natasha to attend the ball she was hosting and Anatole had plans to meet the girl there. He was currently examining himself in all three mirrors in his room and tapping the uniform he was wearing. The spell he was using repeatedly changed the colour from white to green and back to white again.

‘What do you think, Dolokhov?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off his reflection. ‘White or green?’

Dolokhov sighed. ‘You know I have no taste when it comes to these sorts of things. Why did you bring me here, anyway? I hate to be in the same house as Bezukhov.’

‘Well, you should have thought of that before you began seeing his wife,’ Anatole shrugged. ‘Besides, I need you here.’

Dolokhov rolled his eyes. ‘I’m sure if I left this very moment you would not bat an eyelid.’

This time Anatole did turn around, tilting his head. ‘Don’t be like that, Fedya. You know I appreciate your company.’

Dolokhov snorted but said nothing.

‘Now, answer my question – white or green?’

Anatole struck a pose and Dolokhov couldn’t help but crack a smile. Any chance to ogle the prince was good enough for him. He circled Anatole slowly, watching as the colours changed back and forth.

‘White,’ he said finally. The colours stopped changing, settled on the flattering white uniform, and Anatole clasped his hands.

‘Perfect. Now, come here, Dolokhov.’

‘What?’

‘Show me how to dance the _Grossvater._ I’ve completely forgotten.’

Dolokhov felt his face grow hot. ‘Don’t be absurd, Anatole. You can’t have forgotten.’

‘Haven’t I?’ Anatole said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Dolokhov’s waist with a laugh. ‘Come on, remind me.’

‘You are the most insufferable-’ But Dolokhov couldn’t finish before Anatole was leading him in a dance through the room, and after having Dolokhov’s toes stepped on for the umpteenth time, they both dissolved into hysterics.  

‘Brilliant!’ Anatole said, kissing Dolokhov on the forehead. ‘You see, Fedya? What would I do without you?’ He laughed and left the room, headed downstairs to help his sister with the preparations for the ball.

Dolokhov stood in the bedroom by himself. He had always found it amusing, the way Anatole would pine over a girl for a week or two and then forget her entirely. It used to be the only reason Dolokhov would tolerate him at all – he was a wonderful source of amusement. But over the past few months, Dolokhov had begun to develop the sort of attachment to Anatole that was not socially acceptable for a man to have for another man. And so rather than being his usual cold, dignified self, he had been reduced to something of a lovesick schoolboy for a man who didn’t have a clue what love was.

If he was honest, it made Dolokhov angry more than anything. He was frustrated, furious, even, with Anatole for making him feel such a way. He wanted to hit him, hurt him, to scream _look what you have reduced me to!_ But instead he simply dreamed about what life would be like in a different world, a world where he could be upfront about his feelings, a world where Anatole could understand what Dolokhov was feeling, a world where they could have a happy ending.

But Dolokhov had seen too many men die to believe in happy endings.

 

Anatole stood by the door in his uniform, pacing back and forth. Helene had gone out to find Natasha and he was restless as he waited for her to deliver.

And then the double doors flew open by themselves with the force of a powerful spell and his sister strode in, a fur cloak around her shoulders, and behind her…

‘Natalie!’ he exclaimed with outstretched arms, puffing out his chest. The countess was nervous but Helene guided her over and Anatole took her hand, leading them in the dance (which happened to be the _Grossvater_ ). As they danced, her stunning white gown swirling around them, he pressed her waist gently, just enough for her to let out a small gasp. The song ended, and the next (the ecossaise) began, during which Anatole did nothing but gaze into her wide, frightened eyes. He was quite aware that she was entirely hypnotised. He recognised the pearl necklace she wore as one of Helene’s enchanted ones, that had surely lowered Natasha’s defences.

Natasha was fearful of Anatole. In the back of her mind, she heard her own voice repeating _Andrey Andrey Andrey_ but the voice was drowned out by her own heartbeat as she gazed into Anatole’s seemingly endless blue eyes. And then as the song ended, she finally tore herself away, staring at her feet. Anatole tilted her chin up.

‘Don’t lower your eyes,’ he whispered against her ear. He paused for just a moment. ‘I am in love, my darling. You have enraptured me. You are bewitching in every sense of the word – what can I do? You have me defenceless, my dear.’

Natasha’s sparkling brown eyes grew wider. ‘Don’t say such things – I am betrothed. I love another.’ Her own words sounded hollow.

‘Don’t speak to me of that!’ Anatole cried, gradually leading her away from the crowd and catching Helene’s eye as he did so. ‘Natalie… I am madly, madly in love with you. Is it my fault that you’re enchanting?’

‘I’m so frightened,’ she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. ‘I don’t understand anything.’

They were now completely out of sight to the rest of the partygoers, which was no coincidence. He pressed her against his chest. ‘I’m here now.’

And then he moved to kiss her, his mouth just a hair away from hers, when she pulled away, turning from him.

‘Natalie!’ he called indignantly, grabbing her arm as she tried to leave with just a flicker of magic, just enough to send a shock up her arm.

‘I have nothing to say!’ she cried, nearly in tears, but before she could say another word he pulled her close and kissed her deeply on the lips.

Although she did not notice, he smiled into the kiss. He had won.

When they broke apart, she was flustered and teary. He bent down on one knee and clasped her hand in his. ‘I will do anything for you.’

Natasha did not respond and only kissed him again.

 

They didn’t like to call themselves a coven. _Coven_ felt too close and restraining. No, the three of them were simply friends who enjoyed meeting, sharing a drink, and casting curses together.

Anatole was smoking a pipe. Helene and Dolokhov were drinking whiskey, laughing and discussing the latest gossip in the city. It was true that the three of them found gossips insufferable – they felt sure that they were above it all, not like the petty Anna Pavlovna or her types. No, when he spoke of the latest goings-on, they were mocking the simple day-to-day lives that the aristocrats led. Magic was becoming a smaller and smaller part of life in the aristocracy, and everyone seemed to care more for soirees and dinner parties than they did for spell-casting.

The topic was, inevitably, changed by Anatole to the subject of Natasha. Dolokhov immediately became silent as Anatole rambled on about her beauty, her grace, her charm.

‘You’ll make us jealous,’ Helene said with a sly grin, finishing her drink.

‘Of me, or of her? I’m telling you, I have her right where I want her now. She is mine.’

‘Until you grow bored of your latest plaything,’ Dolokhov muttered bitterly.

Anatole laughed. ‘I’m saving _you_ for a rainy day.’

Dolokhov’s heart flickered to life in his chest, but it died quickly. Anatole was joking, just as he joked about everything. Perhaps one day he’d settle and learn to take life in all its seriousness. But until then, he would have to keep coming whenever Anatole called.

‘Now, I must write her a love letter,’ Anatole said, snatching Dolokhov’s drink from his hands and finishing it in one swig. ‘Something romantic. She’s not like the city girls, she has different expectations. It has to be poetic.’

‘Ha!’ Helene hiccupped. ‘I’d like to see you try to write something poetic!’

‘Mm. That’s why Dolokhov should do it.’

‘What?’ Dolokhov said. ‘You want me to write _your_ sweetheart a love letter, from you?’

‘Indeed,’ Anatole said with a smirk. ‘Come, Fedya, do me a favour.’

‘Good God, Kuragin, I’ve done you enough favours to last a lifetime.’

Anatole leaned forward and began tracing Dolokhov’s collarbone with a long finger. ‘Well, perhaps if you do this for me, I can return the favour,’ he said breathily.

Dolokhov sighed but didn’t push Anatole away. ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink.’

Anatole slid off his chair and onto his knees, hands clasped at Dolokhov’s feet. ‘ _Please,_ Fyedka?’

Now _that_ name was sure to sway him. ‘And what would I write in this _love letter_ of yours?’

‘Hm… tell her I will steal her away.’

‘ _What?!_ ’

‘Yes, I think… yes, that would work very well,’ Anatole said thoughtfully, getting to his feet. ‘I will elope with her.’

Helene scoffed. ‘Father would disown you. You’d be penniless.’

‘We could raise funds. The more I think of it, the more certain I am. It’s the only way. I am married, she is betrothed…’

‘You’re a fool,’ Dolokhov said, throwing his head back. ‘But I’ll do it. God knows I need a laugh.’


End file.
